Devotion
by springandbysummerfall
Summary: In a medieval, fairytale realm ruled by sensual and proud gods, Bulma and Vegeta are two young royals set to inherit a kingdom together. But with the arrival of an oracle and her ominous prophecy, the two are obligated by duty to give up the other...and instead court deceit and a game of passion. Fantasy romance/dark drama.


AN: I will try not to interrupt the flow of the story with author's notes in the future, but I thought I should summarize this story briefly at the outset before anyone puts time into it.

This will read like a period romance or historical fantasy, with some fairytale language and themes of drama and intrigue. It's a little bit Ivanhoe, a little bit Vanity Fair, with a dash of Siddhartha, if there's anyone here familiar with classic literature. It's also erotic from head to toe, so PLEASE BE AWARE this story will get unapologetically sexually explicit.

For those keyboard-warriors and "canon" brigadiers: please understand that this is written primarily as a fantasy romance, secondarily as a dark drama, but under all, it's **sexually charged, utterly A/U escapism**. I definitely take some liberties with the characterizations, but I hope at heart I've kept them true to their natures.

I want to personally thank two authors for their help with this story: maymayb, for convincing me this was worth writing and finishing when I fell into plot holes, and who deals with my erratic schedule with infinite patience; and inspired ditto, who let me blow up her phone with texts, air my insecurities and troubles with the plot, and offered her wisdom. Let's go get coffee again already.

It also bears mentioning—because I'm _so_ nervous about introducing this story!—that I have labored on and chipped at and shaped this story for months and months and months. It's near and dear to my heart, and I would appreciate the same care given to any comments and reviews of it. But it's also been an immense project, and reviewers are welcome to share their thoughts on each chapter so I can get advice on what's working and what's not. It's been written almost entirely to its finish, so updates are guaranteed even if delayed, but I'm also juggling a lot of plot and stylistic language here and wouldn't mind any support or input.

Thank you so much for reading my work and participating with me in my creative outlet! I hope you can get as lost in this as I did.

* * *

"_I can__'__t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.__"_—_Lewis Carroll_

**I. I.**

For two days, limpid and wet, a young woman clutched a slab of rubble and drifted upon the ocean's mercy.

The first day, her pale skin blushed and blistered under the indifferent sun. The waves beat at her fingertips, the broken sendstone cutting into the tender skin of her fingers as she clutched it in fright.

The horizon grew infinite, the hours marked by the sun's unforgiving journey across the bowl of the sky, dragging the question of her survival with it.

It was a new reality which festered inside her, cruel in its ambiguity. With oily ease it filled her up, unconstrained, stretching towards the limitless sky above and breaching the dome of the horizon until it was as inky dark as her fortune. Grief held her spellbound, deafening the sound of her sobs, which came and went from her like the clouds scuttling across the sinking sun.

The sun finally set, prompting the wind to chill, which tugged at her sea salt-stiffened skirts and curls.

And then the breeze stilled, and the whole horizon seemed to hold its breath.

The twilight ran purple and wet before it thickened into ebony, the stars cut like roughened gems all around, and finally her fingers loosened on the edges of the slab and she lay on her back, arms outstretched, palms up in surrender.

Her puffy lids drifted closed as easily as a child's, the ribbon the breeze made over her angry red skin, tender. The young woman fell to sleep in the cradle of her home's debris.

… … … … …

The gulls shrieks woke her. The sun had began reaching its golden arms for the immense violet sky, pulling up as if into a mother's arms.

As if born from the carnage of her grief anew, the girl sat up, balancing herself carefully on the sendstone detritus.

She began to paddle.

… … … … …

The first few cottages had closed their doors apologetically in her face. She understood: a stranger, come out of the woods as she was, that it was their safety they were guarding. Wandering from one cottage to the other, their lights a'glow in the fog, it was soon clear that it was less the fear of marauders than for the blue-haired spirit drifting up from the sea, cutting across the bramble and weaving through the tall, spindly conifers at the rocky hinterlands of the beach.

The stubborn grit she'd awoken with at sea began to waver and fray. The fog condensed in the dusk and her knuckles rapped at another door, and she shifted on raw feet. The door opened. The old woman's eyes widened upon falling on her, signing herself vigorously as the other peasants had, too.

The woman's voice trembled. "What have you come for, knocking at my door, spirit child?"

She was the first villager to address her, peering through the cracked door but not quite shutting her out, and the young woman's chest filled with opportunity. "I seek shelter," she said, tongue thick with an unfamiliar lilt.

"For what price?" The woman watched her cautiously from black, upward slanted eyes.

"I have nothing to give in return," the young woman ejected quickly, fearing the door would shut in her face without some promise, without haste. "If I could only get some food and shelter, or if you could point me in the direction of the nearest pontiff, I can then have you rewarded."

The woman's eyes narrowed, her grip on her door, though narrowly ajar…stayed. "A promise of payment from the abbey is an empty promise. What would the abbey pay me with? Prayers?" But still the stout woman clutched her shawl and waited.

"But all abbeys of the New Gods have sworn fealty to the Old Gods," the girl argued, words familiarly exchanged with her tutors a dozen times. The girl did not comprehend why the air between the women stilled and sharpened. "As I am the heir of the Old Gods, so the New Gods are responsible for my safekeeping."

The woman's mouth opened, then, the tenseness broke between them.

"You are a child of the Old Ones," she repeated, full of awe. "No: you are a _scion_ of the Old Gods." Her finger pointed at the waif, wagging in wonder.

"Aye," the girl nodded, uncertainly, wandering at the woman's reaction. Without hesitation, she revealed the identity that had been hers for sixteen years and was now as uncertain, as impassable, as absent as the borders of fairy. "The crown heir of them."

The woman opened her door wide, signing herself over and over, before sinking shakily to her knee.

"Come in, child. Be yourself, and be at peace."

The girl's heart swelled at the familiar verse. T'was a hymn of her people passed along generations and across an ocean when the New Gods, her descendants, had left Lantis for the New World. _Be yourself and be at peace._ She stepped in through the threshold, chest thrumming a climbing adagio of relief, but still the undercurrent of grief surged below, reminding her that death waited.

… … … … …

The moon was high in the sky when the girl fell heavily asleep by the fire. The old woman had promptly awoken a young man from their village and sent him scrambling to the abbey with a message about a wayward scion.

When the girl woke, a heavy blanket had been draped over her small form and a bowl gently placed in her hands, only a moment before the abbey, in a clamor of horse hooves, arrived to answer the call.

Now the pontiff sat on his knees before her slack jawed as she crammed her mouth with stewed beef. The fire was warm on the soles of her feet, crackling quietly.

The pontiff signed himself again dumbly, and the scion's round face ticked with puzzlement as she chewed.

"So it is true, then? Lantis…has fallen?"

The girl's sapphire eyes drifted downward, and she nodded, swallowing hard with barefaced grief. "I believe I am the only survivor," she confided softly.

Images of her mother swept from her hands washed over her without warning, her mother crying out sharply in denial, the roar of the sea as it filled the lungs of her family and rapidly silenced everyone around her. She felt the fear again trill in her chest.

"A wave which consumed everything," she explained to the wide open faces of the mainlanders. "There was no gentle sea rise, no storm to warn us. The force of it blew the walls of the room against the opposite side of the throne room." Her voice betrayed her, trembling. "I do not know why I was spared. I was tossed from wave to wave, and wave to wave, coming up for air and tugged beneath again." Her chest constricted. "It went on so long I began to believe I was simply in purgatory. And then, the sea calmed, and I climbed onto the detritus and looked out from sopping hair, and there was no one left, nothing to be seen." Only the emerald ocean staring indifferently back at her, its silence to haunt her the rest of her life.

The woman and the pontiff stared at her, glanced at one another, and back to the waif again. "Lantis is gone," he finally said breathlessly, "but the heir remains. What are the Gods thinking?"

At only sixteen years of age, though a regent to a timeless kingdom, she was afraid she had no answers. A few days ago, she may have replied easily, but only a single sunrise had passed since the ocean had stripped her of any surety she might have grown to know.

She sat her bowl by the fireplace and clasped her hands on top the wool blanket in her lap. "I thank you for having patience with my…my need. And my accent." A small smile transformed her face, and her voice grew expressive, the foreign cadence musical, rising to the surface. "I have learned a dozen languages and cultures, but never thought to have need of them beyond statecraft. I'm afraid I am not well-practiced in Saiyen."

Her face tightened as the memory of all her lessons in duty swept over her, learned among an afternoon's warm sun and a salty breeze.

Her father and mother had ruled Lantis with a gentle hand, both of a long line of progeny of the First Gods, the Old Ones. She would ascend the throne when her parents grew too invalid to rule, and long lived as they were, it had been lifetimes away. Though she had been educated in statecraft, of balancing power and preserving traditions leagues away from the mainland where new rules and new gods reigned, she did not expect to have need of statecraft for a very long time. Lantis was an eternal summer, and she had danced upon the white sand and climbed the lanky palms and caught starfish and prawns as though in a dream.

The very sea that had nurtured her had severed her from that dream and dumped her into another reality, a dark one where she was suspect, under the mistrustful black eyes in bold mainlander faces.

Though Lantis was under the sea, she had been deposited at the water's edge, here, and was now the only representative left of a kingdom that had ruled from before the written word. There was a dignity expected of her now, she realized, as the stark faces of the crone and pontiff stared at her in wonderment. She was the singular imprint of a line, ended. The severity of the situation weighed on her then, and she felt the stew roil contrarily in her belly.

But there may be hope for her yet. The peasants did not see her as she saw herself: scared, tired, and lost, but rather through the eyes of New Gods.

An astute understanding ticked through her. She was only as wise...as they thought her.

Her hands clasped in her lap, she summoned the ceremonial voice, that strong projection her mother or father would address the court with. The voice of the Old Gods, the mouthpiece that would bring Kings and armies to their knees.

"I…I do not know the God's will. I know not the hands of Fate, pontiff; Fate keeps that from us all. But I am in your hands now."

The pontiff and the old woman stared at the young girl with wide eyes: her mass of teal curls, her strange white skin, the deep sapphire eyes that stared back at them, as wide as the moon fox's, that white, sly creature that was said to lead wanderers of the night into the spirit realm. It was an ancient magick that stared out of those eyes, they believed, and the peasants knew the hands of fate laid out before them when they saw it.

"You must go to Castle of Sky," the pontiff announced without preamble, beseeching her with sallow eyes. "This is the work of Gods, and I am, plainly, a curator of souls and pithy tithes." He chuckled with depreciating humor. "You, you are a regent," he counseled, spine straightening. "You must not stay here in our humble hamlet, resigned to pickling pears and rhubarb from the groves at the edges of civilization. I will hire a driver in the morning. He will take you to Castle of Sky. It will likely be a week's journey. We will make sure you've foodstuffs and money to buy a safe place to sleep. You will not come to any harm by the folk of the land."

No one would dare hurt the white fox that limned the bridge between worlds, and the scion before him was clearly otherworldly, painted of the sea on a canvas of flesh which glowed like moonlight.

The girl watched the woman sign herself again, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the pontiff's face creasing with resolve.

"Castle of Sky is the seat of Oron, is it not?" She asked.

The pontiff nodded. His hand outstretched, as though to pat her own reassuringly, but drew back self-consciously, tucking into the folds of his robe. "The scions of Oron will know what to do. The New Gods have not forgotten their duties to the Old, who carried and labored them to birth, I promise you. In a fortnight, you will be due north at Castle of Sky. You may get the counsel of the King, then, and his ascetics, and decide where you should linger."

The pontiff and the old woman waited. With some dull awareness, she understood her future was still as unseeable, as impenetrable as the depth of the ocean, despite this night's warm solace.

The girl turned, then, and gazed into the leaping flames. She was a scion of the sea; what would become of her inland?

"Who rules, now, at Castle of Sky?" The voice emitted from her was unfamiliar, deeper, brimming with solemn responsibility. It was a heavier gravity to bear on this side of the sea.

"Why, the scions of our lord Oron, my lady. The Dark Lords. The Vejitasei's."

Something tolled inside her chest, a heartbeat stumbling, as she watched the small fire lick at the kettle hanging in the stone fireplace.

"M'lady?"

The pontiff's voice pushed against her awareness, and she slowly turned to regard him.

"You should know…that a young man found this cast up on the beach this morning. It never occurred to us…we should have known…"

He held something in his outstretched arm, and she reached for it slowly as if in dream.

Sand and igneous met her palm in a familiar lovesong. The scion looked down at the object in her hand.

A figurine of the Old Gods, the familiar woman's body with three heads, each with its own serene expression gleaming with knowledge, mouths parted to impart resilience, to preach of divine joy. It would have graced the door of any home or abbey. Her throat swelled. "Thank you," she said, and the pontiff and the crone looked down at her with sympathy as she began to cry.

… … … … …

_"Men and women, they were beautiful and wild, all a little violent under their pleasant ways and only a little tamed.__"_

—_Margaret Mitchel__l_

… … … … …

The beat of the horses hooves knocked against the cobble in a tumble of noise. The music of their hooves had changed as they left dirt for stone and that's how she knew they were getting close, leaving countryside for township. But rather than peek out the curtain, she ran her thumb over the gritty figurine for the hundredth time, a goddess's sea-roughened features in her hands.

The carriage slowed, and she caught her breath at its meaning. Her driver exchanged words with another, his questions inaudible to her over the impatient chuff of the horses. Though the pontiff had paid the coachman handsomely to take her to Castle of Sky, a surge of anxiety overtook her as the coach again surged forward, and she shoved the threadbare curtains aside. The evening was dreary and wet, and the coach was just passing a sulking castle templar standing restlessly outside a basilica. Their eyes met. His dark eyes widened.

She leaned back and let the curtain fall back into place with a breath of relief. The soldier's colors were that of Oron's, black and red under his metal plate, his skin sun-browned and his eyes long suffering, glaring from his steel helm. Oron's descendants were known for the fortitude as deep as their marrow, and a conviction in hard work and pride that flowed as close as blood to their being. It glared unapologetically from all their faces. All had the characteristic thick hair, black as raven's wings, with wide, deep set, slanted eyes. Her own people were fair, whose coloring was not nearly so serious, and slender boned; whereas the descendants of Oron were thickly muscled and tall, built like a wall against a threat. She was a mis-creation here, and because of it, she was learning the people of the Vail were as superstitious as they were self-contained.

She rang her hands in her lap. Though she may be as safe with a scion of the New Gods as she was with her own parents, the scion's of Oron were not known for their hospitality. She was well read enough to know Oron and his kin were neither friendly nor generous. And perhaps, despite what the pontiff claimed, the children of the New Gods had given up faith in the Old. She wasn't sure how she would continue should she be turned away at the door.

Her hips shifted again wearily against the worn seat padding, sinking back into the loose springs, the warped boards of the coach floor rough against her ripped, cloth-soled slippers. The light sandals of balmy climes, of sand and salt and sighing breezes were largely impractical here, in the cool mountainside of a rough people.

She had traveled almost a fortnight across the hills of the Vail, the sprawl of towns in the confines of Oron's kingdom becoming rockier and steeper. Piercing straight through to the heart of the Vaíl—"the land of the watchful"—to Vaíl'larín, "the castle above." Oron's Castle of Sky.

Under a full moon pregnant with possibility and omens, a torrent of ocean water had cut a swath between the grinning, barefoot girl, coated in white sand like a sweet roll, and the now tense young woman gazing out at a New World under a new moon. A fortnight of hyper vigilance, of watching the landscape roll by, and restless sleeps on poorly stuffed straw mattresses in unnamed inns. A fortnight had carried her here and deposited her upon the steps of the dark lord's citadel, and she wondered for the first time whether it was with wisdom or naivety that she had agreed to this idea of the pontiff's.

Was it the impetuous young girl she'd once been that had agreed to this madcap journey, or the sharp-witted and proud woman she must, for her survival, become? It was for both of them—the barefoot young girl and the solemn scion—that she remained in the dress she'd worn when she was swept from the throne room and into the sea, rather than the crone's proffered best gown, equally as dated and poorly knit as it was an unexpectedly kind gesture. And though rinsed and dried, it was the dress of a moribund funeral, salt-bleached and stiff, rigid with pride.

She gazed at the soft features of the goddess with three faces in her palms. The eyes that belonged to the lefthand face were drawn upwards with contemplation, a maiden's curiosity and fascination with the future, of who she was to become and who was to love her.

How could the maiden be so bright-eyed when she didn't know what Fate would hand her? That adventurous, ebullient charm of her own which had been honed among the independent and egalitarian in Lantis seemed flimsy in the face of this dreary evening, the pounding of the horses hooves, the hard face of the templar still ghosting her sight.

Her lips tightened, face round and young in the candlelight. The order of Lantis did not believe in Fate in the hard and determined way Oron's scions were known to, but surely if it were, Fate would not have uprooted her to have her shaking in her boots in front of the lord of a New God. Her resolve steeled and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her skirts.

The voice of her driver rang out in the gloomy evening and the carriage slowed to a stop. It only took a moment for her driver to open the coach door, staring at her as if she were half-witted when she hesitated. It was too soon, it could not be real. She gripped her skirts, drawing them upwards as she crouched and made her way carefully down the steps of the carriage, the driver torn between assisting her while afraid to touch her. She straightened, taking in the stone walls, the keep rising above her, and over her shoulder, the gate ajar behind her. The wide expanse of the town beyond that made her grimace, the towering mountains caging her in, and she clutched the figurine in her hands and made her way up the cobbled steps.

The door was guarded by a pair of templars in blackened iron, and a steward in black livery waited to receive her between them. The tall double doors loomed behind him. He bowed. "Your highness, we have heard the misfortunate news of the loss of your kingdom. The descendants of Oron extend their gravest regards. Our scouts notified us of your journey this evening and the the scions of Oron have since awaited your arrival."

She could not make herself speak. She nodded, then, acknowledging him as best she could.

"If you would follow me, the King awaits you just inside."

The doors opened inward, and the steward bowed, waiting for her to enter first before he straightened.

She padded inside slowly. The immediate entrance to the castle was bleak and dark, as utilitarian and grim as Oron's scions.

As she blinked in the shadows, hundreds of candelabras ignited around her. She watched in wonder as they sparked to life beside her and, one by one, made their journey down the walls like a wave to finally stall and flank a dark silhouette, standing straight under the banners of his House, and the shadow of a man behind him.

She peered at them, her eyes fighting to make sense of their features.

"Welcome," the man at the forefront called. He had a sensible voice underlaid with a careful, aristocratic discipline, and she lingered in the doorway and felt the steward settle at her side.

She breathed in the dusty scent of the castle foyer deeply. She set her features with determination, and began her walk forward as she exhaled, spine stiffening.

It wasn't until she drew up in front of them that his face was known to her. He watched her with deep set, calculating black eyes. The man bowed low at the waist. "It's an honor, child of the Old Ones," the King supplied, and she was struck with a sudden understanding that _this_ was why she'd been educated in the protocol of Kings, as though all the puzzle pieces were drawing together to make something solid of her finally. It was for a moment such as this, when her knowledge and her legacy could be bartered to her advantage. And now this man stood in front of the last of the scions of Lantis, and that knowledge impacted her like a blow to the gut.

She would make sure to honor her line—her parents, her people; flesh which shaped her, now rendered memories, would still have its turn to speak. She may arrive a dirty young foundling, but she would greet him a dignified and tactful sovereign.

"Scion of Oron, Lord of Castle of Sky and Vail," she said, bowing her head, and felt a faint swell of relief that her voice did not waver. An outward display of strength would rule here in front of Oron's scions. "I am sorry to come to your doorstep begging for alms, but it seems as though I have little choice. Your steward mentioned you have heard news of my home."

She watched the King, then, his thick, auburn hair leaping upwards inside an austere circlet of gold. It was apparent, once her eyes finally settled on his features, that despite his approachable tone, he was not a man to pawn. His firm jaw ended in a deviously pointed chin, and he stared down at her from a straight and noble nose, though not cruelly. Even he watched her warily, as though she were something otherworldly come to life, and the wrong word would have him enchained in curses.

"Indeed, we have. It's a testament to fate and your strength of will that you survived. We welcome you to the Castle of Sky, princess." He frowned, a small but severe thing. "I apologize, my squire did not announce you. I'm afraid none of us have heard tell of the scions of Lantis for many years. My son and I would have your full name."

"Bulma," she offered, before correcting herself. "Bulma of House Capsúl, heir to the First Kingdom of Lantis. Though you may just call me Bulma." She looked down at the rags draped over her frame. "I am sorry to greet you like this, your grace. I would be grateful for a proper gown and a real meal, if nothing else. And a hot bath. I'm afraid I've been short on the basic amenities recently." She smoothed out her dress, stiff and sun bleached as it was, the gauzy cotton, spun for the heat of an island, ill-suited to the cold of the mountains and the chill of the castle.

"Of course. Without question." He nodded at a squire, who hustled from the hall. "I must first warn you that we descendants of Oron are a forward people who value action over words. Be assured by it, though, when I say you are welcome to stay here at Castle of Sky." She rather liked him, despite his stony exterior. He was the first person to address her directly, without fear, since she'd last spoken to her mother. "I presume you are in need of new residence," he continued, "and that is in part why you grace my doorstep. Let me extend the invitation for you to stay here as long as you like."

His mannerisms and his clipped speech were ripe with previous military experience. She had read that Oron's descendants, even its royals, were the merciless guardians of the New Continent, invoked whenever there was threat of war. They were forbidding and detached warriors, bred by the aloof and chilly mountainside. Their military might was scrawled in blood all over the books in her father's library.

"By staying here, you would be protected in our stronghold and guarded by the mightiest combatants on the continent. And should you stay, I would be happy to host you in the same manner as I would host another young scion: with tutors, and a season, until the age of twenty one, should you wish it."

He watched as she gaped and made an apologetic bow. He had more finesse than the others she'd met so far, at least. This was no ordinary scion of Oron. "No doubt you are feeling overwhelmed. You have ample time to consider it. But if you have any other ideas, or would rather be sponsored at another House, please let me know." He watched her carefully, pride glinting unmistakably in his eyes. She did not think he wanted to hand her over to another House. "Here in the Vail," he emphasized, "we may not have frequent contact with the scions of the Old Gods, but we are deeply honored to receive them. Please think on it."

"Thank you, my lord." She cleared her throat. "I shall be honest with you. I know not what to do or where to go from here. I am afraid I was never prepared for an event like this." She frowned, gazing downward, the candlelight revealing the tight set of her jaw before she met his gaze firmly. "I should like to take you up on your offer. After all, you speak truly: I have no place to call my own any longer. So let's speak frankly, scion of Oron. I assume that, though I have nothing immediate to offer, I would bring honor on your house by my residence here, and that is partly why you seek to host me." She held her chin high. "All I ask is that I have the final say on matters that concern me; I am in charge of me. In return, I'll do all that I can to bring honor to your own line."

The King blinked. His features softened, and though he did not smile, his eyes gleamed with humor. "It seems the scions of Lantis are as shrewd as they are stuff of legend." He nodded subtly at an attendant behind her. "We will have supper brought to you immediately, and a room has been prepared for you. The Prince will show you to it, if you're ready, as it is down the hall from the royal wing and his own quarters, as close as protocol dictates to the royal wing. As befits a scion of the Oldest Gods." He bowed his head again. An honor, then.

Her head tilted with curiosity. "The Prince?" She had not heard told of a Prince.

The King's eyes cut to a figure who she could saw leaned against the wall beside him, a carved figure in the shadows.

"Yes. The Vail's crown heir. My son…Vegeta."

The figure pulled from the shadows. His movements were molten against the dark, which fell back from him to reveal coal eyes, smug, and spiteful, and cold. She could not help the feeling that she was falling into them, pitch and perceptive as they were, and she felt that she did not want to find herself on the other side, wherever they led. He was young, but older than she, just at the cusp of adolescence and young adulthood to be taut with cruel surety. He had the same upwards sweep of hair as his father, but longer, blacker, with a chiseled jaw and sharp, broad cheeks. It was immediately apparent that he was as proud and cocksure as any young buck, bronze features as hard as the eyes that regarded her.

He glared down at her from his nose, and something moved inside her chest, an indignant curiosity which snaked through her.

"I apologize in advance, for my son has trouble...communicating. He is a scion of Oron in the truest sense," the King explained with some reservation, "and though he strengthens our House's honor, he does not a silky politician make."

She watched him cautiously. "Prince Vegeta." She bowed her head before regarding both men, one of whom did not look as if he was happy to be before her. "I am so very thankful to House Vejitasei for their hospitality. You have honored the Old Gods and House Capsúl with your generosity, and I shall be certain to honor yours."

Sensing a dismissal, the King nodded once, sharply. "Let it be known that House Vejitasei has its pride, and you, the heart of it. The Prince will show you to your room, and you may eat and bathe and rest. If you have need of anything, a handmaiden will await you outside your door at all times. I will see you next when we break our fast in the morning. We will speak then."

The King hinged at the hips, bowing low, and she bowed her own head in respect and appreciation.

The Prince pulled from the shadows and was already walking past her as she gathered herself to leave.

She frowned, hurrying to catch up to him. "Do you always treat your guests in this manner?" Even having measured the distance between them she struggled to stay behind him. "You did not even properly receive me."

The Prince was silent except for a small impertinent gush of air.

"I like your father a great deal more than you so far." She glared at the back of his head, and then gazed at the banners and murals as they passed by. Winter landscapes, red-eyed wolves in the dark, blood under a full moon. She suppressed a surge of anxiety.

The halls were large and drafty, and she felt only the faintest warmth from the torches as they passed. Lantis did not have this problem, open as it was to the mild weather. Surely there was a better way to light and heat a castle.

"I have noticed you and I are of the same age," she commented, drawing her gaze from the walls to the thick pitch of her reluctant companion's thick skull. "When do you come of age?"

"Twenty one," he answered curtly.

Her eyes widened fractionally. She had not expected him to reply. Encouraged, her chin tilted as she examined him. "Will you inherit the throne at that time? In Lantis, we, too, come of age at twenty one and may assume some responsibility, but do not accede power until our parents grow too old to rule. Not for a few hundred years, that is. Are you long-lived as well?"

He did not answer, and her lips pursed in consideration, eyes narrowing. "So ten more years for you then?"

As she had hoped, the Prince glanced back at her darkly. "Do you think I am a child? You insult me. I am nearing eighteen." He strode imperiously before her, his voice growing haughty. "And once crowned, I will go down in history as our most powerful leader."

"You're amusing," she mused, and the Prince glanced sharply back at her.

"When I am King, don't expect me to tolerate your impudence."

"Well, then, I shall thank prudence that a decade lay between your ambition and any real power."

The Prince grit his teeth and she smiled.

"This castle is quite large," she remarked as they headed down another hall.

"You are quite annoying," he snapped.

Her eyes slid to their corners with quiet humor. She murmured, "And I think you have need of someone to best you for the first time in your life."

"I'd like to see you say that in a fencing match or the sparring ring."

Something rustled at his waist. Her gaze fell onto his rear, where a chestnut brown tail was curled around his waist.

She watched it curiously. "You are quite full of yourself, even for a Prince."

The furry belt tightened. "I could say the same of you," the Prince sniffed.

She quieted as her eyes drew to the paintings, assessing the halls and grisly murals. It was told that the scion's of Oron could transform into wolves in the blackest of nights, hunting those that trespassed on the old ways, blood in their toothy smiles, eyes flashing gold as they bore down on their sacrifices. She scoffed at the thought, but resigned to finding the library right away to find the literature and make certain of it. She did not want to end up flossed between this snobbish boy's teeth.

They drew up near a door, where a woman stood at wait and curtsied low. "Your grace. Supper and a bath have already been made for you. There are gowns in the armoire. May I help you bathe and dress?"

"No, thank you. I should like some time to myself." She spied movement out of the corner of her eye before she'd even finished her sentence. The Prince had already turned on his heels and was striding away when she called out to him.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder with shadowed eyes, refusing to look quite at her as if she were undeserving of it.

"Good night, Prince. I hope to teach you some manners soon."

The Prince's black eyes met hers then, igniting.

Her lips twitched with a small smile and she slipped into her room before he could speak.

Bulma closed the door behind her and leaned against it weakly.

The scions of Oron and their oppressive castle weighed on her this night. No doubt the bread and broth that had been her only recourse the last week contributed to this exhaustion.

And yet. Despite the Prince's sour disposition and the grim castle, she felt safe in the upper reaches of Oron's province. She would not like to come up against a Saiyan's self-worth, that was certain, and she made a note to avoid it in the future...though she did not think that befriending the Prince would help her along that path.

A sigh escaped her, like a breeze soughing through palms, their leaves flapping against the coral, shimmering sun which melted into the horizon.

She blinked.

Her vision had become blurring, burning.

It had become deceiving.

Lantis lay still under the sea, and only she remained.

Buoyed, at least. At last.

Her gaze raked the platters laid out on carts for her, the bath drawn, steaming, in the corner.

She could imagine growing settled here, curiously, in this castle in the sky; at least until she decided what to do with herself, as a regent without a realm, and only so long as she did not have to travel any longer through the imperious, jutting, gut-churning height of the mountains.

She placed the figurine delicately on the nightstand and then inhaled the small feast in the quiet of the bedroom, watching the fire absently from a chair, the blaze snapping in the quiet night.

It was with deep relief that she unlaced the stays of her gown and slipped out of her garment for once and for all, sinking into the bath with an exhalation that could not be bothered…except by the memory of the Prince, which tugged at her, unsettling her.


End file.
